Bottoms Up
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Why do they do what do?  Napoleon is feeling philosophical, Illya's just feeling hung over...


_What crawled into my mouth last night? _was his first thought. Napoleon let his eyes decide for themselves as to whether they wanted to open or not. The left one did, the right one didn't. _Work as a team, boys,_ he thought and finally they agreed on some middle ground and creaked open.

Not that it helped much. He was staring at an unfamiliar wall, so he wasn't in his place or even Illya's. There was an odd smell to the room and the details slowly crept back to him. They'd finished their assignment and holed up in a small hotel on the outskirts of town.

After eating dinner and discovering a mournful lack of local lovelies, they'd found alcohol and returned to the room. It had been that kind of an affair, too many deaths, too many close calls…. his stomach rolled unpleasantly… and definitely one too many drinks.

They didn't get drunk, as a rule, not away from the safety of their apartments with their security systems and the familiarity of home. Here they were unknowns, strangers. THRUSH was out of the picture, at least for the moment, and lacking the presence of a soft and willing body to burn off the adrenaline, they'd made do.

He struggled to sit up, surrendered to the inevitable and relaxed again. A noise drew his attention and he realized that Illya was starting to wake up as well.

The Russian drunk had been a joy to behold, well, especially when Napoleon was equally as drunk. They'd laughed, made outrageous claims to fortune, made up unlikely and horrific tales of the impossible.

He let his arm flop over onto Illya's stomach. He didn't remember them stripping down to their underwear, but considering the thick heavy air in the room, it had probably been an act of desperation in the middle of the night.

"What?" His partner grunted in protest.

"Would you mind taking my pulse and letting me know if I'm alive?"

"You have a pulse? Trust you to brag."

"Not sure…" The stomach muscles beneath Napoleon's arm flexed with Illya's attempt to sit up. "We were out of our minds last night."

"Minds, perhaps, alcohol, most assuredly." Illya achieved verticality and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, knocking over a bottle.

Napoleon brought his hand up to cover his eyes and protested, "A bit more care, Mr. Kuryakin, lest you want my head to explode."

"It's very hot." Napoleon now knew part of the odd smell in the room was their own sweat-drenched bodies.

Illya staggered toward the bathroom and Napoleon heard the tub start. He'd prefer a shower, but most of these small European places didn't offer them. The toilet flushed and Illya wobbled back out. "You want first crack?"

"No, be my guest. I would prefer to lie here in peace and decide whether to live or die."

"Think about getting coffee while you're at it."

Napoleon thanked the young woman and exchanged a generous tip for the tray she held. Even though his stomach was still not delighted with him, the coffee smelled good and the pastry not horrible. Carefully, he carried it back into the room and to the bathroom. Illya was sprawled in the tub, a washcloth over his head, looking as wasted as Napoleon felt.

"I have coffee," he announced and the washcloth slid.

"Real coffee?"

"Absolutely." Napoleon handed him a cup and the look of rapture on his partner's face after that first sip made him smile around his hangover.

"You Americans should take coffee-making lessons from the Europeans."

"I thought you preferred tea." Napoleon turned back to the counter and began to rummage through his shaving kit for some aspirin.

"Not after what we did last night." Illya drained his cup and set it aside. "What time is our flight?"

"This afternoon, early. We still have a couple of hours to burn."

Illya began shaving as Napoleon gave up on his kit and headed for his suitcase.

"Did you remember a power converter?"

"What for?"

"Shaver." Illya held up his safety razor and Napoleon groaned.

"I used it to short circuit that console, didn't I?" He winced at Illya's nod. "What am I going to do?" He rubbed his hand over his lower face and sighed.

Illya grinned and tossed him the safety razor. "Technology is not always your friend. " He slid benath the water and resurfaced, reaching for the soap.

Napoleon was just finishing with his shaving when Illya stood and climbed out of the tub. He grabbed a towel, let the water out, and began to dry off.

"You didn't have to do that." Napoleon nodded to the tub. "You're not that filthy… this time." He grinned as Illya threw the towel at him and walked back into the main part of their room.

He refilled the tub with lukewarm water, cold was only available in the winter, and drank coffee while it filled. Illya was right about one thing. The coffee here was very good.

He could hear Illya talking, but he shut out the sound as he eased himself into the water. With the aspirin pounding down the headache and his stomach once again speaking kindly to him, Napoleon was about as happy as he was going to be – at least for the moment.

Illya was sprawled out on his very naked stomach on the only bed in the room. Napoleon made a face and walked over to the side that seemed to have a bit more spare room on it. He gave Illya's arm a nudge and it slowly retreated to its side.

"You know, when I think of having a naked blonde in my bed, it's always with much less… body hair."

"Hmph, you've obviously never slept with a Russian woman then."

Napoleon smiled at that and pulled on a fresh pair of underwear. "No, I can't say that I have." He hesitated, then asked, "Anything new at home?"

"There's a junta that we're keeping an eye on and something about a missing codebook."

"Ours?"

"Theirs, which means they will be changing all their codes and we'll need to obtain a new key."

"Always fun."

"The Section Two Number Three agent in Asia is MIA…"

"Aiji? There's a surprise. I didn't know we'd found him from the last time he'd gone missing."

"And then the usual jihads, uprisings, assassination attempts, kidnapping threats, and what-have-you. Just another day at the office. "

_Sadly, yes, that's exactly what it is. _Napoleon stretched out on the bed, head propped up by a pillow, and stared down at his feet. After a moment, he murmured. "Do you ever wonder why we do it?"

"Do what? Last night? Because it helps us deal with what we must do the rest of the time."

"I meant our jobs. Look at us… how's your shoulder, by the way?" One of Illya's shoulder blades was bright red, a scrape from being ejected from the back of a truck."

"Okay, about the same as your neck."

Napoleon had tried to not see the bruising about his throat today as he'd shaved. He'd have to wear a closed neck shirt for at least a week. "We're scarred, tired, facing a future that can be counted in minutes, if not seconds at times. We've been shot, knifed, beaten, poisoned, and yet we keep going back. Are we just too stupid to stop?"

"I would prefer dedicated." Illya rolled to his side and studied his partner. Napoleon dropped his gaze to his chest and sighed. "Let me ask you a question instead," Illya continued. "If you saw someone pestering someone else, be it a man, woman, or child, and that person was unable, unwilling or frightened, would you stop it or ignore it?"

"I'd stop it. No one deserves to be accosted or not allowed to make his or her own choice."

"That's why we do what we do. We can't walk away from an injustice. It's simply against our nature."

"Even when that might lead to a premature death?"

"Yes, some people consider our path in life to be predestined, while others see it more as a matter of choice. Men like us are placed here to make sure they have that opportunity."

Napoleon's communicator suddenly began to beep on and off and he grimaced. "Solo here."

"Ah, Mr. Solo, I am glad I was able to reach you." Waverly's voice was tinny coming from the small instrument and Napoleon made a face and his partner chuckled.

"Yes, sir?"

"I need you to fly directly to Cape Town. You will be contacted and briefed upon arrival."

"I understand. Mr. Kuryakin?" Illya, propped up on his elbows, looked hopeful.

"Mr. Kuryakin's plans have changed as well. He is heading for Tunisia where his considerable skill at document retrieval is needed. You both leave immediately. Contact me from the airport. Waverly out."

Illya groaned and plopped back on the mattress. Napoleon shut the communicator off and sighed. "So much for some more sleep."

"What are you grumbling about? You have a ten hour flight ahead of you. I have, in all probability an hour's reprieve and then a dusty jeep ride, if I'm lucky and a camel ride if I'm not…"

"Life on the edge."

"And for men like us, the only path."

Napoleon stared up at the ceiling. "You know, Illya, you have a sister -"

"I have three of them and not on your life would I ever let you get close to any of them."

"I'd be gentle."

Illya's head turned and one blue eye glittered with amusement. "I wasn't worried about her. I, however, am far too old to be breaking in a new partner."

Napoleon sat up and stretched. "Sigh, it's all go with us."

"We're lucky men."

Suddenly Napoleon leaned over and punched Illya in his shoulder. "Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, we are."

And then they were off.


End file.
